


Divinest Sense

by ElizabethOShea, PFL (msmoat)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:29:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethOShea/pseuds/ElizabethOShea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>PFL posted the first half of this story as a stand-alone snippet, written as part of an exercise in descriptive writing exploring all the senses. It was beautiful, but the ending came as a bit of a shock. I couldn't bear to leave Doyle there with no hope, so I had to write the second half.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Divinest Sense

**Author's Note:**

> PFL posted the first half of this story as a stand-alone snippet, written as part of an exercise in descriptive writing exploring all the senses. It was beautiful, but the ending came as a bit of a shock. I couldn't bear to leave Doyle there with no hope, so I had to write the second half.

He could feel the sheet beneath him, the soft, cool cotton a welcome relief. The sheets were freshly laundered. It was a sensual pleasure to settle in bed, the day’s worry giving way to a moment of peace.

The familiar sounds of his flat surrounded him: the click of the digital clock by his bed, the faint tapping of plumbing in the walls. Further away, a muted voice proved he wasn’t the only one awake in the early hours before dawn. And from even further away came the sounds of a city that never fully rested. The sounds he automatically monitored for trouble, even in sleep.

If he opened his eyes, gave in to the impulse tugging at him, what would he see? The bedside table, cluttered as always: his clock, a glass of water, a mug, the book he couldn’t finish because of all the interruptions his life brought him. What chapter was he on; where had he last lost his place? Oh, yes: “East.” Leamas would begin to see what his life was, what it would be. Oh, yes.

He could feel the sheet beneath him, the soft, cool cotton. He didn’t want to lose that feeling or take it for granted. How rare it was to feel yourself in the moment—fully, truly—to use less practised senses to ground you in reality. Feel the sheet, the firmness of the mattress; feel the give in the pillow beneath your head; breathe in the scent of washing powder, of cleaner, of home. Listen to the quiet sounds, the normal sounds, the sounds you never heard but missed, achingly, when they were gone. Lost.

It was home. Safety. Security. He could feel it. It waited for him like a living presence, hovering before his closed eyes, waiting to be acknowledged. He could taste it, if he tried. It was that real.

And if he listened, he could hear another sound—different, but not unexpected. Not feared. It was a voice murmuring his name, seeking him.

"Ray."

It was just a whisper of sound, but it summoned him, drew him as no other sound would. If he opened his eyes, he would see Bodie in the doorway: hesitant, unsure, as he always was when he was the one doing the calling.

He was too comfortable for the usual routine, too caught by the fullness of the minute ticking away. And so, rather than leaving his bed to join Bodie in the kitchen, to use tea and humour and words to deflect the meaning in their glances, he held out his hand and waited for Bodie to come to him.

How long does a minute last? Might it last forever? He drew his breath in, slow and easy, and pushed it out just as slowly. The whole of eternity seemed to be in that breath; he felt it as he waited. And then Bodie moved forward, and he took Doyle’s hand in his. He could feel the calluses on Bodie’s hand, and the sure strength he depended on. Bodie’s hand was as familiar as his own, and better loved.

Finally, at last, he drew Bodie to him, into the bed. Soft skin and hard muscle moved easily to his bidding. Willingly. Freely. Bodie’s arms wrapped around him, offering him sanctuary, true peace. And now his senses exploded, eager for this reality, craving it: the smell of Bodie’s body, his sweat and, yes, his arousal; the taste of Bodie’s skin, salt to his tongue; the feel of Bodie’s strong muscles trembling under his hands. And, oh, there was the sound of his name, whispered in Bodie’s voice.

Need was laid bare through all his senses, and he revelled in it, delighted in it. This was all the reality, this need. All he ever wanted was this sweet moment. This one, of all the moments in his life. He’d make it last. He’d make it real.

"Bodie."

The sound of his voice was harsh in his ears, his vocal chords unbearably strained. He coughed, aching for water, knowing there was none. The cement was cold beneath him, rough with grit, and stained with his blood. He could see nothing in the darkness, and heard only the jangle of chains as he moved. He heard his own rasping breaths. The dream shattered; warmth and comfort fled. He was alone.

Ah, God. _Bodie_.

He could feel the sheet beneath him, the soft, cool cotton a welcome relief.

 

*****

 

He could feel the sheet beneath him, crisp cotton smooth against his skin. Drifting in the timeless limbo between sleep and waking, he moved drowsily against it, savouring the sensation, thankful for the focus that held consciousness at bay.

Sounds teased at his awareness; irritants, intruders in this tactile haven. Somewhere at his side, he caught the faintest rustle of movement and what might almost have been an indrawn breath. Footsteps and quiet laughter from another room were cut short by the closing of a door. Beneath it all, muted by walls and distance, rose the constant tidal swell of a city’s traffic. Humdrum, impossible sounds, they had no place in his here and now.

The contradiction disturbed the watchful, animal part of him that never slept. Unable to reconcile the incongruity, sensing only threat, he retreated.

If he opened his eyes, relinquished the comfortable darkness, what would he see…? Painstaking, meticulous, he set himself to recreating the illusion.

But the illusion resisted, refusing to take solid form. His need was no less than before, but it seemed his conjurings had lost their power. The cluttered bedside table, the clock, the mug remained insubstantial, the cover of the dog-eared paperback blurred to illegibility. His unease deepened even as he persevered, stubbornly rejecting the possibility of failure. But the fantasy continued to elude him. _No_. His breath coming faster, he tensed and shifted, feeling the first cold tendrils of panic…

He could feel the sheet beneath him; the cool, crisp cotton. _Yes_. Necessity had schooled him to exist wholly in the present; untroubled by hope, unshaken by fear or regret. No past, no future; only this moment, only the next. He clung to this simple sensation; refused to let it slip through his fingers with the rest.

He could feel the fine weave of the cotton, the firm yielding of the mattress, the crease in the pillowcase beneath his cheek. Breathe in the freshness of newly-laundered linen, the antiseptic tang of cleaning fluid, and the inexplicably, achingly familiar scent closer at hand that tugged at his memory and his emotions, speaking to him more clearly than anything else of safety, security and home.

Bathed in that scent, lulled by it, he felt his racing pulse begin to slow. Desperately grateful, he let it carry him away.

 

A new sound intruded, splintering his fragile peace. It was a sound he had replayed endlessly in his imagination invested with every nuance of feeling, but heard now with a new, startling clarity. A voice murmuring his name, calling him.

"Ray?"

It was just a whisper, but it was the one summons he could never ignore. Despite cruel experience, despite the terror of loss, he opened his eyes.

Bodie leaned over him, face pale beneath a heavy growth of stubble, his mouth tight, eyes burning with more than simple exhaustion.

Doyle was too weary for dissembling, too aware of the improbability of this reprieve. And so, rather than squander the gift in a hopeless search for words, he simply held out his hand and waited for Bodie to come to him.

How does one measure time where time no longer has any meaning? His heart pumped blood, his lungs filled and emptied. The moment hung on the curve of his breath. And then Bodie moved forward and took Doyle's hand in his. He could feel the calluses on Bodie's palm, the incautious strength of fingers that gripped his with a pressure approaching pain.

He drew Bodie to him, patient with his momentary resistance, rejoicing as it melted to his will. He could sense Bodie's shock easing into comprehension even as he moved at Doyle's bidding, wrapping his arms around him without hesitation, holding him close, crushing fear and doubt with the fierceness of his embrace.

The contact shattered Doyle's self-preserving detachment, dizzying him with an explosion of sensation. But reality was no longer an enemy to be feared or denied; now he rushed to meet it exulting, every sense alert to drink it in. The smell of Bodie's body, his sweat; the acrid top-note of his fear and, yes, the deeper musk of his arousal. The taste of Bodie's skin, the dampness on his cheeks salt to Doyle's tongue. The feel of him; his heat, his solidity, his strength trembling under Doyle's hands. And, oh, the sound of his name in Bodie's voice: need and fear and wanting laid bare.

He revelled in it, let it liberate and cleanse him. It was that other place and time that was illusion now. This was all there was, all he needed, all he'd longed for: his sustaining fantasy made gloriously real.

And they would make it last. Prove it true.

“Bodie.”

His voice was a harsh croak, sounding barely human to his ears. He coughed, avid for water, and even before he could voice the need, Bodie was there, lifting and supporting him, steadying a glass at his lips.

The water was a miracle, bathing his parched throat. The look in Bodie’s eyes was another.

Bodie moved closer, filling his vision, his free hand lifting to cup Doyle's face. The metal bed frame jangled with his shifting weight as he leaned down to press his lips to Doyle's, and Doyle shivered at the touch, feeling Bodie's mouth move against his, his breath catching on a murmur barely louder than a sigh.

"Ah, God. Ray."

He was so tired. It was the sweetest relief to give himself over to the sure strength cradling him, to let Bodie ease him back against the pillows, to feel the sheet beneath him, the soft, cool cotton smooth against his skin….


End file.
